


blue beats red

by tryslora



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Community: fullmoon_ficlet, First Kiss, Future Fic, M/M, taekwondo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 17:51:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9503120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: Studies say red always wins. Stiles doesn’t agree. Sometimes blue is just better.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written for prompt #208: Blue at Fullmoon Ficlet. This is… not the interpretation of “blue” that I ever thought I’d write. But I was heading for my own TKD class last night, and we were sparring, and well, I just got to thinking about it. So here. Silly fighting things with a floofy fluffy ending.

When Stiles was five years old, a teacher suggested that he try martial arts, to help him learn discipline and give him an outlet for his energy. His parents were already exhausted by his exuberant enthusiasm, and signed him up at the taekwondo school only a few miles from home. It didn’t help with his focus, but he enjoyed running around for forty-five minutes at a time, and getting to yell as loud as he could. He progressed a little more slowly than some of the other children—he had good technique but wasn’t always ready with his forms—but he was moving forward and having fun.

He gained his brown belt, then his mother fell ill. And suddenly the time that used to be when Claudia would take Stiles to taekwondo became the time when Claudia would go the doctor. Stiles would sit in the waiting room, foot always moving, going through boxes of crayons as he colored fervently in his books. He didn’t want to color, but he needed to do something, and after the first visit he’d been told that punching and kicking weren’t appropriate in the waiting room.

Then Claudia went into the hospital, and taekwondo simply fell by the wayside. There was no time, no money, no way to do it. Besides, Stiles had enough problems with his own new medications, a grieving father, and the fact that as he grew, he he seemed to become clumsier than ever.

There were moments, during his high school life, when Stiles regretted that he never got his black belt, usually when he was fighting with some new monster. His time in little league, and skill with a bat, always seemed to serve him better than his punches.

Then came college, and he finally left Beacon Hills. Left all of it behind. All the monsters, all the memories, and all of his pack.

He’d only been on campus a day when he saw the first posters.

_Cornell University Taekwondo Club: Do you have what it takes?_

_CU TKD: Are you black belt material?_

_Cornell TKD Kicks Stress._

He shouldn’t be stressed. Stiles knows that everything should be easier now. There’s no Nemeton, no supernatural beacon calling the bad guys. All he has to do is study, and pass Orgo as a freshman, and why did he skip Calculus and drop straight into Differential Equations? He might regret his life choices in a few weeks.

Maybe something for stress relief would be a good idea.

And he has gotten kind of used to fighting. At least this way it wouldn’t be his life on the line.

So he joins the club.

Stiles is surprised how much muscle memory he has after almost a decade of not doing anything resembling taekwondo. The punches and kicks come easily at first, although he can’t remember a single form. But he’s a quicker study now, with an intensity and focus that escaped him as a child. The series of kicks, punches, and stances are memorized quickly. By the time he’s been with the club a month, he has secured his old rank of brown belt, and he feels comfortable doing it.

Oddly comfortable, considering he’s spending his free time trying to kick someone in the head.

When he emails the others about it, the reactions are varied.

Lydia is unimpressed by shows of male strength, and suggests that there are better ways to survive stress. Malia asks if he’d like to come hunting with her when he returns to Beacon Hills. Scott just replies “Dude…” and leaves it at that.

Derek doesn’t even reply.

It bothers Stiles at first, that he’s already so distant from his pack. From his best friends. But he throws himself into college life, and he moves forward.

He moves on, which is something he thought he’d never do.

He can’t just give up, though. He can’t just let it go completely.

When the first tournament of the year comes up at MIT, Stiles lets his friends know. Scott’s stuck at NYU and not sure he and Kira can get away for the weekend. Lydia promises to stop by once her studying is done. Malia can’t make the flight. And of course, Derek doesn’t respond.

Stiles is nervous on the day of the competition. The form is easy and he manages second place. His kicks aren’t quite good enough to make it to gain gold. But the sparring… this is going to be his first time sparring outside of practice. This isn’t just for fun; they’re going to mean it.

He breathes in, exhales in a quick rush as his coach ties his hogu. Stiles is blue and his opponent is red. Stiles has heard that psychologically speaking, it’s better to be red in a match, that the person wearing red is more likely to win.

It doesn’t really matter. He prefers the color blue. Red is for unanswered questions. Blue is just pretty. Relaxing.

He dances slightly on his feet, trying to stay light and not lose the warmth of his muscles after his practice kicks.

“Cheong! Hong!” The referee points to two spots on the mat, and Stiles takes his position as cheong—blue. He bows and shakes his opponent’s hand, then drops into ready position. And when the call comes, he fights.

He thinks he dimly hears Lydia’s voice somewhere in the background, but he’s not sure. His focus is entirely on the man in front of him. Stiles snaps kicks out at his hogu, hitting steadily in the center of the red target. He tries to kick to the head, but his opponent blocks, dances back and comes at him again.

When the buzzer sounds for a break between rounds, Stiles is down by one point. He closes his eyes, drinks his water, and tries to breathe as his coach gives advice. He has exactly sixty seconds, then he’s back in and fighting again.

They exchange blows, and Stiles makes sure to snap a kick out every time he takes one. He knows they’re even, knows he has to do something spectacular if he wants to win.

But he’s exhausted. His breath rasps in his chest and his feet feel like lead. Just trying to throw a simple roundhouse at his opponent’s chest feels miserable.

His opponent grins around his mouthguard, and that cocky attitude is all Stiles needs to goad him.

The unanswered questions will not win today.

Stiles skips forward, kicks out. His opponent blocks his body, but Stiles twists, taking his foot up high, connecting solidly with the headgear. He watches his opponent take a step back, then the timer ends, buzzing loudly.

Stiles stands there, gasping for breath, listening to the shouts around him.

He looks back at his coach, who’s pumping one hand in the air, cheering. Then he hears Lydia’s voice calling his name, and he turns to her, raising one gloved hand slowly.

Wait. Is that…?

Stiles blinks, takes a step, but he doesn’t have time to go to her. He takes off his helmet, slips out his mouthguard and tucks it into the ear hole before he puts the helmet under his left arm. He shakes the hand of his opponent, leans in to slap him on the back before he goes to shake the hand of the opposing coach. Then he comes back to center to accept his win, and his gold medal.

By the time he looks for Lydia again, she’s gone. No one’s there.

Stiles strips off his gear carefully, wipes each piece down with a bleach wipe before he stows it in his bag. His coach stops to talk to him, then walks away, tells him to watch the remaining few matches or go visit with his friends.

Someone clears a throat, and Stiles glances over.

His mouth goes dry. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Derek takes a step closer. “Lydia had to run to a study session. She did some kind of a live stream of your match for Scott, Kira, and Malia. You’ll probably have email from them.”

Stiles slowly zips his gear bag closed, comes to his feet. “You’re here.”

Derek rocks back. “Shouldn’t I be? You sent an email, and—”

“No, I mean, I’m glad you’re here,” Stiles says quickly. “I just didn’t expect it. You didn’t exactly say anything.”

Derek makes a face. “I don’t like email. It’s too impersonal.”

“You’d rather write letters?” Stiles asks dryly. “How old are you, anyway?”

“I don’t mind letters, but there’s also the phone.” Derek holds his up. “Pretty sure these things still make calls. Two people, talking to each other, in real time. Where there might be fewer misunderstandings.”

“Because you can hear heartbeats and tell if we’re lying,” Stiles says.

“Because I don’t have to try and figure out the difference between joking and serious and sarcasm,” Derek counters. “Words are complicated without voices.”

“Okay, fine. Fine. Then why didn’t you call me?” Stiles asks, crossing his arms. “You have my number. I know you have it. We have a pack phone list, remember? And if you lost it, Malia has it. Or Lydia, who you apparently still talk to.” He’s just getting warmed up, voice rising quickly.

Derek grips one hand before it can smack someone walking by, holds on as he gets in close to Stiles. “Stop yelling about the pack,” he cautions. “There are people here who aren’t going to understand that when you see red, you think Alpha.”

“Actually, I think unsolved problem.” Stiles tilts his head, carefully tugs his wrist free from Derek’s grasp. “But I like blue better either way. Strings. Chest protectors.” He hesitates. “Eyes.”

The corner of Derek’s mouth quirks up. “Really.”

Maybe it did get to Stiles when Derek was the only one who didn’t respond. Maybe it bothered him more than he wanted to admit at the time. “Really,” he says, and he hopes that now that they’re face to face, like Derek wanted, that Derek can hear what he’s not quite saying.

“Hey, Stiles!”

He turns when his coach calls out, spots his coach waving him over to the rest of the group. He makes a face. “Group photo, and we have to get back on the bus soon.”

“Just give me one more minute.” Derek puts his hands on Stiles’s shoulders, tugs until he turns to face him. “What would you do if I visited Cornell?”

“Introduce you as my hot boyfriend?” Stiles suggests.

“I can work with that.” Derek slides his hands up, frames Stiles’s face. The kiss is soft, gentle, and so fleeting that Stiles is almost not sure it happened, except for the slow smirk Derek wears as he pulls back.

Coach yells for Stiles again.

“I have to go,” Stiles says. “I’m going to text you when I’m on the bus, because I am not talking on the phone in the middle of my team.”

“I’m going to call you when you tell me you’re back in your dorm,” Derek says. “And I’ll be there next Friday night. If you want.”

“I want.” Stiles nods emphatically. “I definitely want.” He slides in close, twists his hands in Derek’s collar and holds him while he plants a kiss on his lips. “Blue beats red any day,” he murmurs. “Just remember that.”

He leaves Derek standing there, but it’s okay. It’s only going to be a week, and then he’ll see him again.

He touches the gear over his shoulder, pats the blue side of his chest protector. Blue’s fierce, and it’s pretty, and most importantly, it might be his.

Stiles can’t wait ’til Friday.

**Author's Note:**

> If you like the idea of taekwondo in fiction, come talk to me about my original web serial [Welcome to PHU](http://welcometophu.tumblr.com)! And you can always chat with me [on tumblr](http://tryslora.tumblr.com)!


End file.
